


still you don't expect to be bright and bon vivant

by graceandfire, Savoytruffle



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-17
Updated: 2010-08-17
Packaged: 2017-12-11 17:32:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/801299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/graceandfire/pseuds/graceandfire, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Savoytruffle/pseuds/Savoytruffle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Leonard McCoy has never met Jim Kirk. In fact, he’s never even heard of the guy. Until the day some crazy old Vulcan walks up to Leonard in a bar and asks him to save the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	still you don't expect to be bright and bon vivant

**Author's Note:**

> Song title comes from Paul Simon’s [“American Tune,”](http://www.lyricsfreak.com/s/simon+and+garfunkel/american+tune_20124677.html) which came on the radio a couple months ago and is pretty much this fic’s Bones in a musical nutshell. [](http://savoytruffle.livejournal.com/profile)[**savoytruffle**](http://savoytruffle.livejournal.com/) says: Thanks, [](http://graceandfire.livejournal.com/profile)[**graceandfire**](http://graceandfire.livejournal.com/) , for agreeing to follow me on this delightful collaborative journey. [](http://graceandfire.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://graceandfire.livejournal.com/)**graceandfire** says: It’s been my pleasure, it’s been a blast, and I’m so completely thrilled we did this!

Leonard McCoy’s Starfleet-appointed therapist once told him – if not in so many words – that his entire life basically boiled down to two personality traits: fear of the unknown and an almost pathological compulsion to think in terms of the worst-case scenario.

This, she said, was why he made such a good doctor: He never stopped trying to know everything there was to know about human (or humanoid or alien) physiology and pathology, and he always assumed in any medical situation that things were about to go to shit at any given moment, so was always prepared when they did.

This was also, she informed him, at the root of his spectacular failure of a marriage and embittering disaster of a divorce: The minute things started to stray from the happily-ever-after he’d always imagined, Leonard had become terrified. Terrified and utterly convinced that everything was going to fall apart. Completely. So either he’d been right in the first place or his unwavering conviction had made it so and, at the end of the day, they both amount to the same thing.

And, of course, the same explanation stood for his aviaphobia, the reason his therapist was appointed to him in the first place. Leonard didn’t like things he couldn’t control or things that could go horribly wrong and he just couldn’t switch off his fucking brain about them.

Simple as that.

After reaching this brilliant conclusion, Leonard’s therapist had recommended a course in flight training, presumably to give him a greater sense of control. Which was a laugh because what the hell would _training_ matter when he wasn’t the one driving the thing? And he’s a doctor, not a damn pilot.

She also recommended he stop drinking.

Yeah, right.

If there are two things Leonard has always appreciated, it’s a drink in his hand and solid ground beneath his feet. And he hates space. If that’s wrong, he doesn’t want to be right.

He holds out his tumbler as the bartender passes by, watches the bourbon splash into it, downs half the new glass before the liquid even has a chance to settle.

Not that it matters, anyway.

Leonard McCoy’s Starfleet-appointed therapist is dead.

So’s his ex-wife.

So’re each and every one of the Academy’s flight instructors.

The irony of the situation isn’t lost on him. He lived because he was in space. They died because they weren’t.

He raises his glass to irony and drains it in one long swallow, lets it fall to the bar in his hand with a heavy clunk. The bartender shoots him a glance, but he shakes his head. He’s reached his limit. Like it or not, there aren’t enough doctors left in the Federation for Leonard to give in to his darker nature.

He won’t shirk his duty.

“Doctor Leonard McCoy?”

He turns on his stool and looks up into the face of a very old Vulcan.

“That’s me.” Still sober enough to offer medical assistance and everything. “Can I help you?”

“That is my most sincere hope,” the Vulcan informs him. He pauses, studying Leonard. “It is remarkably pleasing to see you again, old friend. Especially in light of recent…events.”

Leonard frowns at him, squints a little. “Do I know you?”

“I am Spock,” the Vulcan says.

Leonard blinks at him. “Bullshit.”

“It is not, in fact, bullshit. I am Spock.”

Leonard squints at the Vulcan some more. Unlike most of the Vulcans Leonard’s met—up to and including the real Spock—this one seems to be missing the obligatory poker up his ass. He looks intent but not stiff and a faint hint of amusement lightens his age-worn face as they stare at each other.

This can’t be Spock. Then again, the odds of a Vulcan deciding to play a practical joke on him also seem pretty damn low.

“You’re Spock,” he repeats.

“I am Spock,” the Vulcan agrees.

Leonard studies the wrinkled features, pointy ears and serene expression. He tries picturing the stiff young commander (now captain) he worked with on the Enterprise, aged by a hundred years give or take.

It _could_ be Spock, he supposes.

Or, more likely, it’s some poor old Vulcan who’s been driven to delusions by the loss of his home world.

The fact that this ‘Spock’ is looking at him with affection isn’t really helping his case since Leonard’s sure as hell never seen that look on real Spock’s face before. Or any Vulcan’s face, for that matter.

Leonard sighs. If the old man’s delusional, he can’t just leave him here.

He gestures to the stool next to him with a shrug. “Okay, _Spock_. Let’s hear it.”

 

 

Leonard blinks. And then blinks again. And then glares. “So, let me get this straight…you’re Spock from the future.”

“That is correct.”

“From the same future that gave us Nero, may the bastard _roast forever in hell_.”

“I possess no knowledge regarding his location in the afterlife.” Spock pauses and tilts his head. “Though one may always hope.”

Leonard snorts. “And you guys changed the timeline and now Earth and Vulcan and three fourths of Starfleet are fucking gone.” Gone forever. He pushes back the crushing blackness that threatens to rise up with the words. He’s gotten a lot of practice at not going insane since everyone lost everything sixty-seven days ago.

Sorrow laces the old Vulcan’s voice. “I deeply regret that this is so.”

Leonard shakes his head. Because here’s the part—unlike all the other entirely _sensible_ things the old man’s been saying—where the shit _really_ gets weird.

“And you want me to _go back in time_ so I can make sure this guy, this James Kirk, joins Starfleet. Because you think he’ll somehow ‘Save The Day’.” Leonard’s mama raised him to be polite to his elders but he can’t keep the bitter bite from his words as his fingers form air quotes. Because the universe doesn’t fucking work that way. Some days don’t get saved.

The world just ends.

And the rest carry on.

The Vulcan nods, eyes searching. “Yes, Doctor, that is what I would like you to do. I realize that…”

Leonard raises his hand to cut him off and makes a sharp gesture to the bartender.

“Fuck it. If we keep talking I’m gonna need another drink.”

 

 

Turns out, he needs another three.

One drink past his limit Leonard’s head feels much clearer.

He sets his glass down and adopts a firm, if dry, tone. “Look, Spock, it was nice of you to come all this way to fuck with my entire understanding of the universe, but I’m afraid I’ll have to decline. Whether Nero was supposed to show up and fuck us all to hell or not, he did. And there are real, existing people here–survivors—who need my help. The _medical_ help I’m actually qualified to provide. Starfleet isn’t exactly overrun with medical personnel these days, you know. I’m not about to go AWOL.”

“I have always appreciated your dedication to your profession, Doctor,” Spock says, sounding exactly like the ambassador he professes to be. “And to Starfleet. Indeed, I have _not_ traveled far to see you this evening as I spent the earlier part of this day here in meetings with Admiral Archer. He will be sending you the orders for this mission tomorrow morning. Though they were finalized today, we agreed that I should attempt to persuade you personally first. It is, I have been told, the ‘right way’ to proceed between friends.”

Well, fuck.

Leonard doesn’t bother to tell Spock that they aren’t friends. He lifts his glass and waves it for another refill.

“Why me?” he asks, when the glass is empty again. “I’m a physician, not ‘The Doctor.’”

Spock’s quizzical half-expression suggests Leonard has had enough to drink.

Leonard almost laughs at that. He so obviously hasn’t. Not nearly enough.

He waves a hand. “Never mind. The point is, you wanna change things so badly, _you_ go. Hell, you’ve had enough practice.”

“Qualification in this case is not a question of experience but of character.”

It occurs to (and disturbs) Leonard that he might finally be learning to speak Spock. “You think he’ll like me more.”

“It has been noted, on occasion, that my comportment requires a certain period of adjustment on the part of most Terran humans.”

Leonards lifts an eyebrow. “You don’t say.”

 

 

“So, look,” Leonard says, three drinks past his limit and feeling desperate, “if you can send people back in time, why not just send yourself back to before Nero even gets here in the first place? Get the whole fleet there to meet him? You could take him out for good and get your own universe back.”

“It is impossible to, as you say, ‘get it back.’ I am unable to prevent Nero from appearing and his very appearance will always alter this timeline in some fashion. Indeed, in trying to ‘repair’ too much, I only increase the risk of making the situation less tenable. Moreover, the Orb of Time, considered a religious object of great significance to the Bajoran people, is somewhat…opinionated. Consultation with the Bajoran spiritual leader indicates that, in this particular case, any attempt to use the Orb to reach further than five years into the past would be unwise. Thus, Captain Pike’s attempt to recruit this reality’s James T. Kirk into Starfleet only three years ago offers a singular opportunity. As Jim might have said, it is our ‘best shot.’”

Leonard squints at Spock and shakes his head. “I don’t know _why_ you think this one guy is going to change everything.”

Spock just looks back at him, steady and sure. “You do not know Jim Kirk.”

 

 

 

Leonard does _not_ know Jim Kirk. All he’s got is a computer rendered holo and Admiral Archer’s best recollection of Captain Pike’s description of one short encounter that took place over three years ago – except for the part where it’s happening in a month.

Fucking time travel.

The sad part is that Leonard’s got _exactly_ enough information to know that the sounds of fists against flesh and shattering glass on the other side of the barroom door mean he’s probably in the right place.

He enters the chaos that is O’Malley’s bar and grill. Watches a body fly past him. Shakes his head. Yeah, obviously this is the perfect hangout for the guy who’s supposed to save Vulcan and Earth. But he has his orders. Leonard looks to the center of the chaos and catches a flash of dark blonde hair right before it disappears under a pile up of bodies.

He scowls. Dammit, he’s a doctor, not a brawler.

Gritting his teeth, he wades in. He blocks a fist that flies out of nowhere, _doesn’t_ block another fist and hits back out of reflex. Just as he resigns himself to being an active participant in the brawl, the man he’s trying to reach goes flying past him, assisted by a very burly individual with no neck.

Leonard takes advantage of the momentarily clear path, and the fact that the other brawlers appear to be distracting each other, to head toward the battered man who’s already back on his feet, surprisingly steady for the damage he appears to have taken.

He _thinks_ it’s Jim Kirk. Hard to tell with all the blood.

“Hey, are you…”

The guy’s fist slams into Leonard’s face, which explodes in pain as Leonard goes staggering back.

“ _Goddammit_ ,” he snarls, cradling his jaw and glaring at the man who is quickly becoming the bane of his existence. He resists the urge to pound the little prick’s nose through his skull. “I’m not here to fight you!”

He waits, wary, ready to duck another swing. He doesn’t relax his guard even when fists lower and the man—fuck, he’s hardly more than a kid—looks at him from behind a rapidly swelling pair of black eyes.

“Oh, hey, sorry. Honest mistake.”

Leonard starts to scowl and then stops because, fuck, _ow_. He sighs instead. “Look, are you Jim Kirk?”

“That’s me.” For a man beat to hell, Jim Kirk seems remarkably cheerful, grinning despite a split lip, which stretches in a way that has to hurt like a son-of-a-bitch.

“My name’s Leonard McCoy and I need to talk to—”

“Look out!”

Leonard finds himself shoved out of the way, watches from his relatively safe position on the fucking floor as the kid slugs the guy who just tried to brain him.

Well. This mission is off to a great start.

 

 

The bar is quiet now. At least Leonard can’t hear the sounds of crashing furniture anymore. Of course, maybe that’s because Jim Kirk, apparent source of all mayhem, is no longer _in_ the bar. He’s sitting on the sidewalk outside, dabbing at his face with a cloth.

Leonard shakes his head at the closed door and sits down next to Kirk. “Gimme that,” he snaps, snatching the cloth from Kirk’s hand. He takes hold of the kid’s jaw and turns it to assess the damage.

“Ow!” Kirk tries to squirm from his grasp, but Leonard’s having none of it.

“Hold still, you idiot,” he mutters, studying Kirk’s cheekbone. He needs to clear away the blood to see if he’s gonna have to locate a dermal regenerator somewhere. He wipes at it with the cloth, but it’s too dry to do much good.

What he wouldn’t do for a goddamn medkit right about now.

Sighing, he finds a clean corner of the cloth and licks it before reapplying it to Kirk’s face.

“Did you just _lick_ that?”

“Shut up.” Leonard licks another clean patch and continues his work. Two black eyes, a split lip, three superficial cuts and a fuckload of bruising. It isn’t pretty and his fingers itch for the tools to repair it, but the kid’s face will heal just fine on its own. Well, once the cuts are cleaned properly, anyway. It may take a few days, but the kid could probably use the object lesson. Not that Leonard really believes any such lesson will penetrate his thick skull.

Speaking of which, Leonard drops the cloth into his lap and uses both hands to feel gently around the back of Kirk’s head, but finds no obvious cause for concern.

“So,” Kirk says, “now that you’ve finished covering my face in your saliva in the least sexy way possible, are we gonna fuck or what?”

It takes Leonard a moment to process the question, hands freezing against Kirk’s sides, where he’s checking for damage to the ribs.

He blinks.

“Are you out of your _mind_? You’re covered in lacerations and contusions, I haven’t ruled out a concussion,” his hands start moving again, “and I’d be pretty damn shocked if you haven’t fractured at least one—”

“Ow, fuck,” Kirk gasps.

“—probably two ribs. And I haven’t seen your hands yet, but I’m sure they’re abraded all to hell.” Leonard lifts one of his hands from Kirk’s body to finger his own face where the knuckles in question left their mark.

It’s hard to pull off a come-hither gaze with two black eyes, but Kirk is doing his level best. “I didn’t hear a ‘no,’” he says.

Leonard snorts. “You’ve _got_ to be kidding. You need medical attention.” _Not to mention psychiatric_.

“You’re a doctor,” Kirk says, managing a half-waggle of one of his eyebrows. “Why don’t _you_ give me some attention?”

Leonard shakes his head. This kid redefines _unbelievable_.

Wait…he pauses, frowning, “How did you know I’m a doctor?”

“Well, it’s either that or you just really like touching me. Besides, Sawbones, most people just call them ‘cuts and bruises.’”

“Sawbones?” Leonard asks.

Kirk shrugs. “Never been a big fan of doctors.”

“I’m sure they’re not too keen on you either.”

Kirk chuckles. “Aw, don’t take it personally, Bones. Let’s go back to your place. I’m sure you can change my mind.”

“I don’t have a place,” Leonard says automatically. _Fuck_ , he thinks, realizing it’s true, he’s got nowhere to sleep tonight. How did they not plan for this?

“Fine. My place, then. It’s a little messy, though.”

Leonard considers his options. “Okay,” he agrees, “but I just need to talk to you. In private.”

Kirk laughs again. “Whatever you want to call it, man. You married or something?”

“No,” Leonard says. He couldn’t be any less married these days if he tried. Though, technically, he guesses there’s some version of him down in Georgia right now who hasn’t come out of the bottle long enough yet to sign the papers.

He stands up and reaches down to haul Kirk up by the arm.

“ _Ow_ ,” Kirk protests. “Your bedside manner kinda sucks, you know.”

“Don’t be an infant,” Leonard says, slinging Kirk’s arm over his own shoulder. “Let’s go.”

 

 

Kirk’s place isn’t the bachelor-pad nightmare Leonard fears. It’s a nondescript one bedroom in a nondescript building in a nondescript, but mostly respectable looking, part of town. It _is_ kind of messy but at least Leonard doesn’t feel like he’ll need rabies shots after he leaves.

Kirk’s movements are a little stiff but he must have some pretty damn impressive pain thresholds. Most people sustaining as much physical damage as the kid’s taken tonight would be laid out in bed, popping painkillers. Kirk just gives a casual, “Make yourself at home,” before heading to the kitchenette to grab, not an icepack or an aspirin, but a beer.

Two beers. At least he’s a decent host.

Leonard takes the ice cold bottle that Kirk offers with a nod and pops the cap, taking a swallow as he tries to figure out how the hell to start his sales pitch. _Hi, I’m from the future. You need to join Starfleet so you can save the Federation from a Romulan madman in about three years or so. I know this because a time traveling old Vulcan told me._

Yeah, that’s gonna go over well.

Leonard takes a bracing breath. “Look, I need to talk to you about something and it’s going to sound pretty out there but just…”

“Hey, I’m pretty open minded,” Kirk interrupts with a lazy smile as he drops onto the couch next to Leonard, propping his booted feet up on the scarred coffee table and taking a pull from his bottle. “I’m not much into cross dressing and I won’t do anything that involves livestock—” Kirk pauses and shrugs, “—well, okay, there was that _one_ time, but I’d have to be a hell of a lot drunker than I am right now. Other than that I’m game for the kinky shit.”

Leonard blinks. “What? No, that’s not what I…”

Kirk puts his beer down and turns to face Leonard with a grin. “Of course there’s something to be said for good, straight forward fucking too.”

It’s the only warning Leonard gets before he’s got a tongue in his mouth that’s not his.

It should be a turn off. The kid’s face is disgusting with grime and blood, not to mention those two damn black eyes. But he does something with his tongue right…there, and one hand is coming up to massage his neck like… _that_ and, _fuck_ , Leonard feels himself starting to get hard. And then he feels Kirk’s other hand on his dick and it’s not so much ‘starting’ anymore as totally there.

Kirk laughs softly, reaching to pull Leonard’s hand down to Kirk’s own dick, which Leonard instinctively palms through the stiff denim. The denim’s definitely not the only stiff article Leonard’s feeling.

Kirk sucks in a breath and gives him an appreciative smirk. “Y’know, one thing I do like about doctors. They tend to be good with their hands.”

 _If genocidal future Romulans could be vanquished by cheesy lines and sheer unrelenting sex drive_ , Leonard thinks, _Jim Kirk would indeed be our savior_.

He rolls his eyes, but can’t resist flexing his fingers a bit to earn another satisfying hitch in Kirk’s inhale.

He knows it’s wrong.

Just one more second, he tells himself, and that’s it.

Just one more second of warmth against his palm, one more second of humid breath against his neck.

And then he’s going to stop.

Because, while he’s been ordered to locate and persuade, Leonard’s pretty damn certain this isn’t what Spock or Archer had in mind.

So one more second and he’ll let go. He’ll push Kirk away, get the kid’s faced cleaned up for real and tell him everything. One more second and Leonard McCoy will do what he can to ensure that no one besides him ever has to experience the hell he just left behind.

Only he’s drifting, caught between the hellish future and present-past, and is it wrong that he doesn’t hate being here? That the instant he snaps back from the ‘then’ to the ‘now’, he’s filled not with a sense of duty but with an overwhelming sensation of relief?

One of Kirk’s hands is still at the back of Leonard’s neck, fingers stroking. But the other one isn’t on Leonard’s dick anymore and he really wishes it was.

Because Leonard could have said no to his _dick_. He’s not a teenager anymore.

Instead, the hand is sliding under his shirt, trailing up his side, thumb tracing tiny circles as it goes, and motherfucking hell, but it’s been so long since Leonard’s just been touched.

And he can’t say no to that.

He just can’t.

So he starts to rationalize.

After all, it’s not like he could just tell Kirk everything tonight anyway. The kid probably wouldn’t believe him if he tried. He’s got to build up some credibility first. Earn the kid’s trust.

Besides, any idiot knows you don’t just go tossing the weight of the world – of _two_ worlds – onto some stranger’s shoulders. You get to know the guy first, figure out the right approach, look for a way to ease him along the path.

You don’t need psych training to know that.

But Leonard _has_ psych training. And the fact is, if Leonard wants to do this job right, he’s got no choice but to spend some time getting into the kid’s head, finding out what makes him tick, learning how to get through to him.

It’s the right thing to do.

Even if it’s totally wrong.

He huffs a laugh and Kirk pulls back a few inches to look at him askance. “What?”

Leonard just shakes his head, imagining the mission report.

_Located potential subject embroiled in bar brawl. Joined brawl in attempt to extract subject. Punched in face (by subject) for these efforts. Confirmed subject’s identity. Conducted brief manual examination to determine extent of subject’s injuries. Discovered damage to be superficial. Returned to subject’s residence where encouraged to perform further manual examination. Determined refusal might compromise mission. Proceeded to fuck subject through mattress. For the good of the Federation._

Yeah, that’s gonna go over well.

Except that it’s not gonna go over at all. There will be no mission report. He’ll never see that same Spock or Archer again.

He stares at Kirk who’s staring back at him, frowning. Fuck. He’s gonna blow this if he doesn’t…

But then Kirk just shakes his head, mouth easing up into a cheerful smirk. “You’re thinking too much, Bones.” His smile widens. “But I think I can help you out with that.”

And then Kirk’s moving off the couch and crouching between Leonard’s knees, undoing his pants as Leonard watches dumbly.

When Kirk frees Leonard’s dick and takes it in a confident grip, Leonard can’t help but respond, arching into the touch. And when Kirk leans down and just breathes, hot, moist puff of air ghosting over Leonard’s already sensitized flesh, Leonard can’t help but gasp. And when Kirk flicks out with his tongue and licks right at the tip, and then opens wide and just swallows Leonard down in one smooth, controlled motion, Leonard can’t help but feel.

It feels…it feels…oh, _fuck, fuck, fuck_ ….it just _feels_. Like he hasn’t felt anything in so damn long, too damn long…like Kirk’s mouth is connecting to Leonard’s dick which is connecting to…everything.

He realizes he’s moaning in encouragement. He realizes his hands are sliding through Kirk’s short blonde hair. He realizes he’s bucking up into the other man’s mouth and— _fuck, Len, get some goddamn control, you’re gonna hurt_ —but Kirk just makes this _sound_ , this filthy, appreciative, encouraging _sound_ and takes more of Leonard into his mouth and it’s a better fucking man than Leonard McCoy who could restrain himself with Kirk’s genius mouth doing those filthy genius things.

He realizes he’s swearing steadily, that his eyes are closed, except…he opens them because he wants to see and, hell yes, the sight of Kirk looking right back at Leonard, his mouth stretching around Leonard’s dick and…“Fuck!” Leonard moans as he bucks into that mouth and comes.

Kirk doesn’t even blink, doesn’t break eye contact as he swallows.

Leonard’s muscles are shaky and he may be having an out of body experience—except his body is feeling too damn good for him to leave it right now. Kirk pulls off, a smug look on his face. It would be obnoxious as hell except for the fact the kid looks so damn _pleased_ and, well, truth to tell, the kid’s got a reason to feel smug.

If sucking cock was the way to save the future, Jim Kirk would _definitely_ be the right man for the job.

The future.

Leonard feels himself coming down from his high. But before he can crash all the way back to Earth, Kirk sits up and back onto the coffee table in front of Leonard. He unbuttons his jeans, leans back on his elbows and gives Leonard a filthy, inviting smile that has nothing to do with the grime that’s still coating his face.

“Help a guy out?”

Leonard blinks at the man spread out before him. He hesitates. Two wrongs, his Meemaw always assured him, _do not_ make a right.

The kid is still injured and Leonard’s sitting in his apartment under false pretenses.

On the other hand, as his mother was fond of saying, in for a penny, in for a pound.

It strikes him, out of nowhere, that they’re both still alive – his mother and his mother’s mother – here and now. This Earth. This time. He could go to them, see them, send them away to some distant colony no one would care enough to destroy.

He realizes in the same thought that they would never go. He remembers them as fearless, and even if he supposes they probably weren’t, he thinks they must have come as close as he’s ever known. They weren’t the type to flee from some hypothetical future, to leave home behind.

Leonard wonders where he went wrong.

“ _Bones_ , hey.” Leonard looks up to see the kid waving at him. “Remember me?”

 _Oh, fuck it._ Leonard abandons the tortured internal struggle, just slides off the couch and onto his knees.

After all, it’s only fair.

 

 

It’s six-thirty a.m. and Leonard is making waffles.

From scratch.

That Leonard has located the ingredients for waffles – along with an actual waffle iron – in Kirk’s distinctly bachelor-like kitchen constitutes a minor miracle.

That Leonard has chosen to take these ingredients and make them into waffles constitutes a major mystery.

Kirk is sound asleep in the bedroom, like any sane person would be at this hour.

But Leonard doesn’t really sleep these days.

He works. He drinks. Occasionally, he passes out. But he doesn’t really sleep.

Looking at the bedroom door, Leonard remembers the deep, even rhythm of Kirk’s breathing, the heavy carelessness of his sprawl, and resents the hell out of the kid. His fist clenches around the whisk and a part of him wants to storm through that door, to shake the kid awake and demand to know just who he thinks he is to sleep so easily.

But he doesn’t.

He beats the hell out of the batter, instead.

Leonard hasn’t made a batch of waffles in ages.

He used to, though. Every Sunday and on special occasions. It’s the only talent he’s ever shown in the kitchen and Jocelyn used to find it charming. Until she just found it boring.

Until she decided it was irritating, aggravating – as if each performance of their Sunday morning ritual constituted a personal attack by Leonard on everything the woman stood for.

But damned if Leonard had even known what that was in those final days, weeks, months of their marriage. He’d have stopped anyway, just to keep the peace, except that waffles always made Joanna smile.

He’d lived for those smiles.

The bedroom creaks open. “Bones?” Leonard can’t believe the kid persists with that stupid nickname. “You still here? You should come back to—Are you making _waffles_?”

What can Leonard say? “Yeah. Help yourself.”

Kirk doesn’t hesitate to do so, grabbing a plate and a waffle and digging in. “Good thinking,” he says in between bites, “we’re totally going to need our energy for the next round.”

The kid, who’s distractingly underdressed in nothing but a pair of half-buttoned jeans, can apparently still leer with his mouth full, and Leonard wonders, for about the fiftieth time that morning, just what the hell he’s gotten himself into.

Maybe it’s time to find out. See for himself if there’s more to Jim Kirk than meets the eye. Old Spock had sure as hell seemed to think so.

“So what do you do when you’re not picking up strangers or getting into bar brawls?” _Oh, that was smooth, McCoy._ Leonard rolls his eyes at himself as he pours more batter into the waffle iron. _Real damn smooth._

Kirk pauses in the middle of his waffle appreciation moan, which sounds an awful lot like his blow job appreciation moan, and stares at Leonard for a considering moment before he shrugs. “I bartend on the weekends, do some freelance mechanics and electronics repairs. It pays for this place. And for the beer.”

“You, uh, seem like a bright kid. You ever think about college or…” He’s cut off by a sharp glance that morphs Kirk’s bright-eyed, care-free attitude into something harder, more cynical. More like Leonard.

Kirk smirks but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m collecting life experiences.” He waves his waffle laden fork in the air. “Look, I _really_ appreciate the waffles and I’m game for round two of fucking each other’s brains out, but I’m not looking for a father figure and I _don’t_ need a life coach so if you’re gonna start lecturing me about my potential, you can see yourself out.”

Fuck. Clearly he’s hit a sore spot. Time for a tactical retreat. Leonard snorts and skillfully moves the last finished waffle to his plate, switching the iron off. He takes his breakfast over to the small dining table, taking the seat opposite Kirk. He looks into wary blue eyes. “It’s no skin off my nose what you want to be when you grow up, kid. Pass the butter.”

After another moment of wary consideration, Jim’s shoulders relax, his easy grin returning as he slides the small tub forward. “What’s this _kid_ business, anyway? You’re not exactly an old geezer.”

No. He just feels like one. Leonard cuts a piece of waffle with his fork and puts it in his mouth. He closes his eyes as memories hit him. Sundays with Jo.

_Jo._

“Bones. Bones, you all right?”

He opens his eyes and stares into Kirk’s concerned ones, swallows the memories down with his food. He can’t afford them. He settles for a half-truth. “Sorry. Used to make these for my daughter. The ex-wife got custody in the divorce.”

“Aw, fuck. That bites.”

The genuine offer of sympathy without pity settles something inside of Leonard. Maybe the kid is a bruiser and an underachiever but he seems to have a good heart. Once upon a time, Leonard believed that could go a long way.

Maybe, deep down, he still does.

They finish their last bites in silence.

Kirk picks up their plates and sticks them in the dish sanitizer. “So, you up for that second round?” he asks, looking back toward the table, but the question sounds more perfunctory than anything.

Before Leonard can say more than, “I’m really not sure that’s a—” Kirk is already shrugging and turning away.

The mood has passed.

Leonard stares at Kirk’s bare feet as he pads across the apartment and disappears into the bathroom. He reappears ten minutes later in nothing but a towel and Leonard starts to think his earlier refusal may have been a bit hasty, but Kirk just tosses, “The shower’s all yours, Bones,” over his shoulder on his way into the bedroom.

Leonard looks down at himself and decides it’s an offer he can’t refuse. There’s a water option, but he sets it for sonic and steps in with his clothes on. Nothing like pulsating waves of sound to make a man and his garments feel human again.

Or something like that.

Leonard finds a single-use toothbrush in a drawer under the sink, sets to using it, and decides he’s probably overstayed his welcome. Not that he can leave the kid alone, exactly, even if he wanted to, but he can get out of Kirk’s hair for the day, find a real place to crash for the rest of this ‘mission.’

Give them both a little breathing room.

“Anyway,” Kirk says when Leonard steps back into the living room, as if they’ve been talking this whole time, “I promised Olley I’d go into the garage for a few hours today. You coming?”

Apparently, breathing’s overrated.

 

 

 

“Bones? Bones?”

It takes a moment for the word to penetrate the fog around Leonard’s brain. It takes another moment for Leonard’s brain to remember that some crazy kid has decided that word is a fitting substitute for Leonard’s actual name.

Leonard’s eyes edge open to take in his surroundings.

An office.

Olley’s office.

He remembers Olley – a large, slightly rounded man with dark skin and a bright, white smile. He remembers Olley’s daughter and Olley’s son, in their matching blue overalls, both as young as Jim – maybe younger – and both just as beautiful.

He remembers Kirk’s easy flirtations and their gentle eye-rolls and the heads shaking over the bruising on Kirk’s face.

He remembers sitting and watching Kirk work on a hovercar and listening to him tossing diagnostic ideas and suggestions back and forth with the others.

He remembers thinking the kid knew his shit.

He also remembers the glazing of his own eyes and thinks his head must have been drooping because the kid had come over and taken Leonard into Olley’s office, which, according to Kirk, boasted the most comfortable couch West of the Mississippi.

Leonard had had his doubts, but now…

“What time is it?” he asks, rubbing his eyes.

Kirk is leaning against Olley’s desk. “Time to go home,” he says.

Leonard’s eyes find a chronometer. _Shit._

“You let me sleep for _six hours_?”

Kirk shrugs. “You kind of looked like you needed it.”

Leonard sits up and stretches. Looking around, he realizes everyone else is long gone.

Also, that he hasn’t felt this rested in…seventy-one days.

Kirk pushes off the desk and walks over to the couch to offer Leonard a hand up. “C’mon,” he says. “Let’s go home. I’m hungry. And you know how to cook.”

“Actually, it’s just the waffles,” Leonard admits. “I’m kind of a one-trick pony.”

“That’s alright,” Jim says. “We’ll order in.”

“C’mon, kid…” Leonard shakes his head. “Why would you…? I mean, I can’t just…”

“You got anywhere else to be?”

Leonard sighs. “No.”

“You got anywhere else to go?”

“No.”

Kirk extends his hand again and this time Leonard takes it.

“Then let’s go home,” Kirk says.

 _Home_ , the kid says, like it’s nothing. This word Leonard stopped using years ago, even before his entire fucking planet imploded. Hearing it now is…unsettling. And yet not entirely unwelcome.

Yeah, the kid’s got a good heart.

Not to mention a _horny_ heart.

Although, apparently, so does Leonard. About thirty seconds after entering the small apartment, they _both_ decide to forego food in favor of more sex.

Good sex.

Possibly even _spectacular_ sex.

After, still pressed tightly to Jim’s side on a bed far too small for two grown men, Leonard lets himself relax into post-orgasm lethargy and wonders at this nearly forgotten feeling he thinks could be…contentment. He’s still working up the energy to feel guilty about this fact when he feels a nudge from the warm body lying collapsed next to him.

“Hey, Bones?”

Leonard turns his head. Thinks that eyes have no right to be that blue. “Hmm?”

Kirk shifts on the bed to shoot him a forlorn look. “Now I’m _really_ hungry.”

Leonard chuckles. “Yeah. Me too.”

They lie there.

“So, one of us is gonna have to move.” Kirk’s voice conveys the clear hope that he will not be this person.

Leonard shoots him down without compunction. “This is your town, kid. You know the best takeout places.”

Kirk heaves a disappointed sigh and then stretches with a melodramatic grunt of effort to grab the link off the nightstand.

“Chinese okay?”

 

 

Forty minutes later they’re sitting at the dining table, wolfing down Kung Pao Chicken, Mu Shu Pork and Shrimp Lo Mein.

An hour after that they’re playing poker for M&M’s.

Four beers after that it’s strip poker.

Two shirts, one pair of pants, three socks, a belt and a pair of briefs bearing the dubious truism ‘ _What you see is what you get’_ later, strip poker turns into sex on the living room floor. It’s hard on Leonard’s knees but damn fine for everything else and, when they finally rouse themselves enough to collapse back in bed together, he passes out and sleeps like a rock.

 

 

That day sets a sort of pattern. One they follow (with some variations) over the next week.

They hang out. Jim occasionally moseys on out to work; sometimes Leonard accompanies him, sometimes he doesn’t. They eat in or they eat out. Jim annihilates him at chess. Leonard trounces him at Rummy.

They have a lot of spectacular sex.

They talk.

About everything that means nothing and nothing that means everything.

Jim acts like Leonard’s always been there, but never asks how long Leonard plans to stick around.

The thing is – the _hard_ thing is – the more Leonard learns about Kirk – about _Jim_ – the more he _likes_ him. And the fact that he’s planning to use all his newly acquired knowledge to, in essence, manipulate the kid into joining Starfleet, sticks in his craw.

But time is running out.

 

 

In the end, Leonard can’t do it.

He can talk to Jim. (He _has to_ talk to Jim. He can’t not. He couldn’t live with himself if he didn’t try.) But he can’t play him.

Jim is at the shop for the afternoon and Leonard is pacing the apartment, practicing speeches in his head.

After an hour or two, Leonard gives up the pacing. He’s sitting at the dining table, quiet and still, when Jim finally bursts through the front door, arms laden.

“So I’m thinking beer, pizza, shower, and sex,” Jim says, plunking boxes of the first two items down on the kitchen counter, “but not necessarily in that order.”

He turns to face Leonard and Leonard’s expecting the leer, but he gets the smile.

That stupid, carefree smile that Jim’s got no right to go around wearing. That gorgeous, generous smile that Leonard’s got no right to wipe from Jim’s face.

Leonard’s not prepared for the smile. He opens his mouth, but can’t speak.

Jim doesn’t notice. He’s too busy sniffing at his underarm. “Okay, definitely shower first.” He looks up at Leonard and there’s the leer. “Join me?”

He can’t. Leonard knows he can’t.

“The pizza will get cold,” he blurts. It’s not what he meant to say.

Jim laughs. “Cold pizza is like my favorite—” He pauses, rethinks, smirks. “Well, my _second_ favorite thing in the world. C’mon.”

Jim starts across the room and Leonard knows it’s now or never.

“Jim, wait. There’s something I have to tell you.”

“Okay,” Jim says, still stupidly unconcerned. “I promise I’ll be super quick. I won’t even use soap.”

Leonard can’t help his smile. “That’s disgusting,” he grumbles.

Jim grins and turns back toward the bathroom. They start speaking at the same time.

“Look, there’s no easy way to say this,” Leonard begins, “so I’ll just—”

“You know you love it,” Jim says. “Just give me five minutes and I’ll—“

Jim breaks off and starts to turn around and Leonard’s next words come all in a rush. “Jim, I was sent here from the future to get you to join Starfleet and the future of the planet may actually depend on whether or not I succeed.”

Jim just stands there and stares at him for a moment.

Then he laughs.

And laughs.

And laughs.

“Good one, Bones,” he finally manages between chuckles. “You almost had me there for a second. You’ve got a hell of a poker face. Me in Starfleet, though? That was my parents’ gig, not mine.”

Leonard sighs and forces himself to look Jim in the eye. “Christ, kid, I’m not fucking with you here. Damn it, I wish I was. Don’t you remember? That night in the bar, we didn’t just run into each other. I was looking for you.”

Jim snorts. “Because you were sent from the future?”

“ _Yes_. Jim, I swear to you, I know I shouldn’t have waited this long, but I just didn’t…. I need you to believe me, Jim. This is important.”

Jim studies him for a long moment, then approaches the table, hands up, palms facing outward, trying – _fuck_ , trying to show Leonard he means no harm. “Look, Bones,” Jim says slowly, “I believe you, okay? I believe that _you_ believe what you’re saying.”

“Damn it, Jim! I’m not crazy! You just—you need to hear me out here.”

“Okay, fine,” Jim says, sitting down at the table. “I’m listening.”

Leonard takes a deep breath. Lets it out slowly. Inhales again. And starts talking.

About a time traveling Romulan — a fractured madman — whose vendetta consumed two planets before the collective efforts of the (remaining) Federation had (barely) stopped him.

About the link between those attacks and the _USS Kelvin’s_ fatal encounter with an advanced alien ship over twenty years earlier, in which a Starfleet officer’s bold actions saved hundreds of lives at the cost of his own.

(Leonard pretends not to notice Jim’s flinch as he reveals this bitter twist on the story Jim must have grown up hearing.)

And, finally, about an eccentric old Vulcan possessed of a wild scheme involving an alien artifact, time travel and faith.

Unshakeable faith.

In one James Tiberius Kirk.

As the words spill out Leonard waits for Jim to interrupt. He expects questions or angry words or more disbelief, but Jim just sits at the table, the lines of his face growing harder, colder, morphing into those of a stranger.

Leonard finally falters to a halt, his last words trailing off.

He waits for Jim to speak.

But Jim stays silent, staring down at his hands, clenched so hard they’re white and bloodless.

“Kid? Jim?”

Jim shoves up to his feet, still not looking Leonard in the eye. “I’m going for a ride.”

He turns and walks out, shutting the door softly behind him.

Leonard stares at the closed door. Thinks about going after him except, what the fuck else is there to say?

He sits instead. Where Jim sat.

Stares down at his own hands and thinks about everything he should have said differently. Everything he should have _done_ differently. Thinks about how he probably just fucked up the fate of two worlds.

Thinks about the hurt hiding beneath Jim’s stony expression.

He waits.

 

When Jim doesn’t come back that night, or the next day, Leonard begins to scan the newsfeeds and calls around to the nearby hospitals. He pictures Jim’s bike twisted and crumpled on the pavement and Jim’s body lying next to it, in a ditch maybe, or bleeding out in a gutter where it’s been dumped after some stupid, picked fight. Leonard doesn’t dare leave the small apartment for fear he’ll miss Jim when he _does_ return.

Because Jim _has_ to return.

It’s the evening of the second day when Leonard hears the lock turning. He feels the blazing rush of relief as Jim steps through the entrance way.

“Jim, Jesus Christ, thank god you’re okay.” Leonard stands too quickly, grabs the back of the chair to steady himself. “I never should have—”

“You’re still here,” Jim says, voice hard, turning his head to scan the room.

Leonard’s own eyes dart around the apartment, seeing it suddenly with the perspective of an outsider.

Too many too-empty bottles.

Fuck.

He staggers around gathering the nearest empties and throwing them into the recycler. He’s not proud, but then he’s not surprised either.

It’s who he is.

He scrubs a rough hand over his bloodshot eyes and stubbled jaw and dares himself to meet Jim’s gaze. “I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

“Right,” Jim says slowly. “I mean, it must be tough showing up from the future with nothing but the clothes on your back, not a credit to your name. Good thing you found another way to earn some lodgings.”

“Jim, I—”

“No, really, that was some quick thinking,” Jim says, stepping further into the apartment, gathering some of the empties himself and brushing past Leonard to drop them into the recycler. “They teach you that in Starfleet, _Lieutenant Commander_?”

Leonard’s own hands are frozen in place, so tight around the empty glass he’s surprised it doesn’t shatter. “I never—”

“Oh, no, I know,” Jim says. “It must have been that know-it-all Vulcan, right? Wrote it into the mission plan all logically and shit? He knew me, right? Told you the fastest way to get to Jim Kirk is through his dick?”

“Of course not,” Leonard says, fighting his brain for words. “I would never…. You were just so…. And I couldn’t…”

“Oh, right, sure. It was totally my fault. You _wanted_ to explain how you were lying to me and using me, it’s just that I jumped you and you couldn’t get a word in edgewise.”

“No, that isn’t what I—”

“Two weeks, Bones!” Jim says, suddenly shouting. “Two fucking weeks and you didn’t say one fucking thing.”

“You’re right,” Leonard whispers, hunched over the kitchen counter. “I’m the worst kind of coward, I know. But you don’t know what it was like back there. We lost so much. I was so fucking lonely and then I was here, on the planet I thought I’d never see again, and you were so…”

He looks up into Jim’s eyes, pleading for something. Forgiveness? No, he doesn’t deserve that. Just maybe…something like…understanding.

He doesn’t get it.

“Get out,” Jim says.

“Jim, please, I—”

“Shut up,” Jim snaps. “I’m going, okay? It’s done. I’m going to find your Captain Pike and let him talk me into joining your precious Starfleet.”

“Jim—”

“I mean, what the fuck else am I supposed to do? My father died for this, right? And I guess the fate of the fucking planet – fuck, the whole fucking Federation – pretty much rests on my shoulders now. Thanks for that, by the way.”

“I didn’t…. You’re not…”

“I mean it,” Jim says. “You can go now. Mission fucking accomplished. You’ve done your duty now, so fuck off.”

Leonard opens his mouth and then shuts it again.

Jim folds his arms across his chest and waits.

Leonard forces his fingers to unclench, to release the bottles, as he pushes up off the counter. His eyes meet Jim’s one last time.

“I’m sorry,” Leonard says and walks out the door.

 

Leonard counts down the days to his return, when he’ll be yanked back to an unknown, unwritten future.

He doesn’t try to see Jim. He doesn’t have the right.

But he lets himself believe.

Believe that Jim will join Starfleet. That he’ll be in that bar in Riverside to be ‘talked into’ joining by Captain Pike. That he’ll find a way to channel all of that brilliance and determination he hides so well into fighting Nero.

Because, in the end, Spock had been right.

Leonard _hadn’t_ known Jim Kirk.

But he knows him now.

And so, as he feels that strange tug start in the middle of his diaphragm, signaling the end of his visit to this past, Leonard allows himself to hope that he’s returning to a better future.

 

 

 

Rigellian slime worms. Chekov just _had_ to come back from their very first official mission infected with _Rigellian_ slime worms. Aside from the fact that they’re slippery little fuckers that it took him four _hours_ to root out of the kid’s intestinal system, the little grey slimefests _smell_ like skunk spray, are twice as hard to get out of your clothes and hair, and have a tendency to _explode_ at the slightest incorrect contact.

Leonard is so done for the day (and ready to seek out alcohol).

“Couldn’t be a little more careful could he?” he mutters to himself, ignoring the looks from passersby. He can _still_ smell the little bastards, even though he knows it’s phantom at this point and that the scrubbers in Sickbay have cleansed him down to the microbial level.

Reaching his quarters, he punches the code and stomps in. Phantom or not, he plans to take another goddamn sonic shower _and_ a hot water one for good measure.

“No, the kid had to go _tromping_ off into the bushes all ‘Doktor, I am so wery _sorry_ but was amazing _samples_ …’”

Switching from sonic pulses to good old fashioned H2O, he reaches out to pump green gel into his hands and lathers it up. “I’ll _tell him_ what’s gonna happen the next time he thinks it’s a good idea to…”

The memories slam into him, nausea twisting in his stomach and he’s on his knees and retching before he even realizes what it is he’s seeing running through his head.

“What the fuck, what the fuck, what the _fuck_ ,” he moans to himself, shaking as he tries to make sense of the new memories layering and twining with the old. Memories that aren’t true, that can’t be true because Jim stopped…no, that never happened, Nero never destroyed Vulcan or…

“Holy fucking Christ,” he whispers as the memories start to settle, as the knowledge sinks in and the shakes get stronger.

Because he’d done it.

Jim had actually done it.

 

 

He and Jim had done it.

Oh, _shit_ , he and Jim had _done it_.

The realization comes rather belatedly – almost two hours later, in fact – having been pushed to the back of the queue by things like the knowledge that somewhere in space-time there’s a version of the universe in which Vulcans became an endangered species and a nine-year-old Joanna McCoy was sucked into a black hole before Leonard ever made it back to Earth to say goodbye.

Or save her.

He’s sitting naked on the edge of his bed, where he’d landed after stumbling out from under the water, not thinking to stop the shower or to grab a towel.

It shut off automatically two minutes after he’d left the bathroom.

Twenty minutes after that, Leonard had dripped dry.

It’s been at least an hour and half since and he’s still processing – can’t even begin to imagine a time when he _won’t_ still be processing – but he’s also starting to remember just how much he’d screwed Jim over.

He forces himself to stand up, determined to head straight to Jim’s quarters and apologize.

And that’s when it hits him: he didn’t just screw Jim _over_ , he screwed Jim’s brains out.

He screwed his best friend’s brains out.

He screwed his _captain’s_ brains out.

 _Fuck,_ Leonard thinks, sitting back down and burying his face in his hands, _I am so screwed._

 

 

Eventually, he decides not to go straight to Jim, to at least sleep on the whole situation first.

Which doesn’t quite explain how he ends up outside Jim’s quarters halfway through gamma shift, in the dead of the ship’s ‘night.’

The door slides open and there’s Jim, hair and night clothes mussed, but eyes bright and alert.

“Bones,” he says, “what’s wrong?”

Leonard wishes he knew where to start. He goes to step across the threshold, then hesitates. “Can I come in?”

Jim looks confused by the question. “Of course. What is it? Are you okay?”

“It’s—” Leonard pauses. “I’m—” He shakes his head, sighs. “God, Jim, I’m so sorry.”

Jim gives a nervous laugh. “Who’d you piss off this time? Was it someone in the admiralty? ’Cause, you know, I could get behind that…”

“Jim, you—” Leonard shakes his head again. “I mean, I can’t believe you _actually_ … Christ, Jim, I’m not sorry I went. I can’t be. I mean, if you could _see_ what it was like – I can’t get it out of my head – but still, it wasn’t fair to you. I know that now. I knew it then. Nothing about it was fair from the get go, putting all that responsibility on one person, but then I had to go and make it worse…”

“Bones, what’re you—?” Jim breaks off mid-question, his eyes widening. “Oh, shit, you remember, don’t you?”

“It was a mistake.” Leonard’s words practically tumble over each other, desperate to get it. “I mean, not the mission, but the…other thing. And, I swear to you, _that_ was never part of the mission, that was just… _fuck_ , I don’t know, it’s just you were so _kind_ to me, just taking me in off the street like that and I was so fucking lonely and so _tired_ and—”

“Bones…”

“And I know it’s no excuse—”

“Bones…”

“And if you can’t forgive me, I’ll understand, but I hope we can still—”

“ _Bones_.”

Leonard finally stops and looks at Jim.

“I forgave you a long time ago.” Jim’s voice is soft and firm. “I mean, there I was, sitting on that shuttle, resenting the hell out of you and Pike and Spock and everyone else from this weird, fucked up future I was supposed to change, and then that woman drags you – the then you – out of the head, bitching and moaning, and she forces you into the seat next to me. And I didn’t even realize that version of you was going to be on that shuttle, but I turned and I looked at you and you were just…such a fucking mess, and I don’t know.”

“Gee,” Leonard says, “thanks.”

Jim shrugs. “I couldn’t stay mad. And besides, you looked like you really needed a friend.”

A wave of relief sweeps through Leonard, so strong it leaves him feeling weak. He staggers over and sits down on Jim’s loveseat. “Thank you,” he whispers.

He means for everything.

Jim nods and moves to sit down in the chair across from him. “So you remember it all now?”

“Yeah,” Leonard says, looking down at his hands. “It just sort of hit me, all at once, six or seven hours ago, I guess. I was in the shower and then there it all was. And now it’s like I have two parallel sets of memories between that shuttle flight and now”

“Fuck,” Jim says. “That must be weird.”

Leonard nods and they sit there for a few minutes without speaking.

“So, while I was there – you know, in the past – I guess we…um…” Leonard trails off.

“Went at it like horny tribbles on every available surface of my apartment?” Jim suggests.

Leonard cracks a small smile. “Yeah,” he says. “That.” He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “So how come you never…? I mean, it’s not like there haven’t been…moments.”

In fact, there were several times over the years – some somewhat drunken, but others mostly sober – when Leonard thought for sure he and Jim would fall into bed together. But Jim had always drawn back at the last moment.

Jim shrugs again. “Didn’t seem right, I guess. To start something with someone when he didn’t know the whole truth of the situation.” He laughs to soften the words, but they still sting.

Leonard figures it’s no more than he deserves. “Christ, Jim, if I had it to do over again, I swear I’d never—”

“Hey, now,” Jim says, holding up a hand, “don’t go digging up another Orb of Time. It wasn’t all bad. I mean, I don’t know how vivid your memories are, but that sex was pretty spectacular.”

Leonard looks at Jim.

He sees the kid he lost himself in in Riverside, sees the cadet he found himself with at the academy.

Leonard closes his eyes and swallows.

When he opens them again, he sees the man some crazy old Vulcan described to him once in a bar, sees the man he’s willingly followed onto a tin can and out into the black.

“I remember,” Leonard says.

Jim smiles for a moment.

Then the smile melts into a smirk. “Are you sure?” he asks, standing up from his chair and moving to sit next to Leonard on the loveseat, letting their fingertips brush. “Because if not, I was thinking maybe you could use a refresher…”

Leonard pretends to reconsider. “Now that you mention it,” he says, “things may be a little hazy.” He turns his face toward Jim’s and leans closer. “Maybe if you just…”

“I’m all over it,” Jim says.

And he closes the last bit of space between them.

 

 

_Fin._


End file.
